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HERMIT OF 
LANE 




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FtNEUA MiNOH kHiiOVO 



THE 

Hermit of Lover's Lane 

BY 
CORNELIA MINOR ARNOLD 



Author of "Stonefield Silhouettes," "Historical Saapbook," "The Laying 
of the Manor Ghost," Etc. 



"Glamourie slept in her eyes, terribly calm in the tumult. 
Hidden and secret and sweet was the smile of her crimson mouth." 

— Gjipsj) Verses. 




THE BILLINGTON PRESS 

Ossining, New York 

1912 



60\ 






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Copyrighted 1912 
BY CORNELIA MINOR ARNOLD 



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THE HERMIT OF LOVER'S LANE. 



" Spring was sweet cind keen in his blood. 
Singing, he sought his mate. 
The wife for the life and time of his mood. 
Formed for his needs by fate." 

— Gypsy "Verses. 

Absalom Clabby halted his yoke of oxen in the furrow, 
while he lifted a torn hat from his brow and wiped therefrom 
the sweat of honest toil. The brow was white and well 
shaped though the spring sun had spread a healthy russet over 
face and neck. He passed a strong brown hand through his 
wavy hair, and leaned on the plough handles, while the sleek 
handsome red oxen, perfectly matched, and with marvelous 
breadth of horn finished with polished brass buttons, stood with 
eyes almost closed, and ruminated placidly. 

Absalom had followed the plough all day, beguiling his 
labor by singing psalm tunes in a sweet tenor. He had a good 
voice, and was popular at "singin' skewl," while in "meetin* " 
it rose strong and clear above the cracked and quavering tones 
of the congregation. 

Now as he looked over the spnng landscape green with 
tender buds, and the ploughed lands, with their promise of a 
rich harvest, he sang by strange contrast, a verse from "Habak- 
kuk" as the tune was called in "The Shawm," the old board 
covered psalm book used in the Congregational meeting. 

"Altho' the vine its fruit deny, 
Altho' the olive yield no oil — 
The withering fig tree droop and die. 
The fields elude the tiller's toil." 

It was one of those days filled with "the light that never 



was on sea or land," and a vague restless longing for something 
outside of his life, he knew not what, filled his breast. The 
odor of freshly turned earth, the high sweet monotone of peepers 
m the marsh at the foot of the hill, and the soft warble of a 
bluebird 

" — Shifting his light load of song 
From post to post along the cheerless fence." 

all appealed to the senses, and the sum total was unrest, a feel- 
mg which may be described by the paradox of "sweet sorrow." 
His eye rested on his matched yoke, and a thrill of pleasure 
moved him, as he noted their sleek hides and perfect points. 
But comforting as a fine ox team may be, they did not fill the 
void that ached in his bosom. 

"Dunno whut ails me. Cal'late I better take some yarb 
tea; reckon I'm bilious," he soliloquized. 

A warm April shower fell in sparkling gems, though the 
sun shone brightly; a robin, his red breast glowing in its late 
beams, burst into a jubilant song of praise. A rainbow curved 
its splendid arch, seeming to end behind a small white house on 
the adjommg hill, which stood out clear against a dark spring 
cloud. 

Charity Eels lived in that house, and Absalom had been 
seeing her home from "singin' skewl." In country parlance he 
had been "sparking" her. His discomfort grew. He wondered 
if his vague discontent had anything to do with her. Perhaps 
it had. 

" I reckon I'd better walk over tonight, an' clench th' 
bargain with Charity. She's a pretty gal, an a good one too," 
thought he. 

Having made this good resolution, he settled his hat. took 
the plough handles in a firm grasp, called to his oxen "Whoa- 
haw-gee-g'lang. Star an' Bright," and began singing another 
psalm tune suited to his resolve. 

2 



"Come my Beloved, haste away, 
Cut short the hours of thy delay. 
Fly like a youthful hart or roe 
Over the hills where the spices grow." 

Never again did Absalom sing these words; their associa- 
tion with that April day made them a song of sorrow instead 
of joy. 

The oxen leaned forward in the creaking yoke, and the 
ploughshare turned over a roll of the rich black soil. As he 
approached the stone wall along the country road, he glanced 
down the highway, and beheld a sight which excited his rural 
curiosity. Passers were always interesting in the country, even 
of the most ordinary character, and the approaching multitude 
was worth halting to look at. 

Several covered wagons painted red and green, were 
drawn by equines in a more or less perfect state of preserva- 
tion, while led horses, many dogs, a few goats, a riotous crowd 
of strange looking children, and stranger men and women, pro- 
claimed the party as a band of gypsies let loose from enforced 
winter quarters by the welcome spring. 

As Absalom watched them, a feeling of repulsion, a true 
Puritan hatred of the wandering Ishmaelites, their mode of life 
and lack of morals and religion seized his emotions. He could 
not refrain from looking at them however, and even the oxen 
opened their mild eyes wadely to stare at the clan. 

Withered swarthy hags peered out from the wagons, their 
repulsiveness accentuated by long pinchbeck ear-rings set with 
gaudy imitation jewels, heavy necklaces encircled bony and 
yellowed necks, bracelets and bangles clattered together, while 
large rings covered dirty hands. 

A dim idea, unformed in words, came to Absalom, of the 
need of youth and beauty to make such things endurable, and he 
remembered his mother's plain homespun gown and little quilted 
black silk bonnet with a measure of satisfaction. 

3 



Old men with gold hoops in their ears, jaunty young men 
with black loosely curling hair, embroidered jackets, and high 
black sheepskin caps, mingled with gaily dressed young women, 
making a bright dash of color in the pale spring landscape. 

Suddenly a woman separated herself from the crowd, and 
ceune boldly up to the stone wall. 

She was lithe, young and graceful, with olive skin like 
velvet, great eyes that one moment seemed of midnight black- 
ness, and the next held topaz lights in their depths, jet black 
hair in two massive braids almost to her knees, and scarlet 
lips. Those lips! They held Absalom's eyes as a serp- 
ent holds a bird. Never in dull pale New England had 
he seen such lips, such eyes, such color. It was as if a 
gorgeous midsummer day, all light and brilliance and bloom 
should suddenly burst into being from the cold gray fogs of 
February. 

How had he thought Charity beautiful, with her gray eyes, 
rose tinted cheeks, and simple Quakerish gown ? Charity had 
an old amethyst brooch, an heirloom, which she seldom wore, 
lest it should be too gay. Charity's gowns were of gray-blue 
to match her eyes. She suddenly seemed plain and pale as a 
windflower beside a full blown flaming peony. This girl's 
dress was of scarlet, with yellow trmimmg and gilt tinsel 
embroidery. 

Yet the scarlet gown paled beside those wonderful lips. 
She wore on her bosom a bunch of flowers gathered in the 
swampy ground at the foot of the hill, dull purplish red tnllium, 
with its strange ill scented bloom. Absalom had always 
thought "Wake-robin," as it was familiarly called, a noxious 
malodorous weed. Now it seemed rare and beautiful as an 
orchid, absolutely in harmony with the strange brilliant creature 
before him. 

Even the heavy jewelry which seemed so vulgar on the 

4 



older gypsies enhanced her eerie beauty. She stood a moment 
silently, a smile parting the wonderful lips, displaying teeth, 
regular and white as ivory. 

Absalom stood transfixed, oblivious to all the world except 
the Romany maid. Doubtless she fully realize^! his amazement 
and admiration, for the smile was tinged with scorn. She spoke 
in a deep rich contralto. 

" Sarshan, giorgio ! Rakessa tu Romanis ? '* (Greeting, 
Gentile ! Do you speak the Romany language ? ") 

Absalom stammered a few incoherent words. The gypsy 
laughed aloud, — a bubbling liquid laugh, like the song of 
the wood thrush. Verily, she was a scarlet sorceress. Then 
she spoke in good English. 

" Gilda, the Zmgara, speaks, oh son of New England. 
Cross the gypsy maiden's palm with silver, and she wall unfold 
to thee thy life; the past, the present and the future. Gilda is 
the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, and the veil lay 
on her eyes at birth, which when lifted reveals the future. Lo, 
Fate hath somewhat in store for thee ! " 

The topaz light faded from her eyes, and they glittered. 

Unwillingly Absalom stepped from the furrow, and came 
slowly to the stone wall. Gilda held out her hand, and 
Absalom, with reluctance in spite of his admiration extended 
his. As their hands met an electric shock seemed to pass up 
his arm; he drew away his hand, and put it behind his back. 

A chorus of laughter went up from the gypsy crew, and 
Absalom blushed like a girl. An old hag bedecked with heavy 
jewelry came forward, pushing Gilda aside, saying in a whining 
insinuatmg voice — 

" Goot efenin'! I lof you ferry well; 'ow de do! Let the 
Romany Dye (Gipsy mother) speak. The beautifool, lofely 
young man, he wants be dukk^red. (Have fortune told.) He 
no 'fraid ol' Dye. "Besh Alay; lei a hitti ral^l^erben. " (Sit 

5 



down; have a little talk.) 

She seated herself on the stone wall, and seized Absalom s 
unwilling hand. She glanced at his work hardened palm, and 
cast her eyes to heaven, placing her disengaged hand on 
her heart, 

" Oh, the lofely Giorgio ! He born under planets 
o' Venus an* Juno ! He have the long life line ! He two 
time rt/mmerec/ (married.) He be soon rummered, yes, — before 
this moon grow dark ! He no have seek gold, silver, jewels ; 
they come to him ! But ah, the sorrow, — the sorrow ! " 

Absalom's senses returned to him with a rush. He 
snatched back his hand, and returned to the plough, wheeled 
the oxen about and began his furrow across the long field. 
Looking back, he saw Gilda gazing after him, her eyes full of 
topaz lights. The old woman laughed shrilly, and called after 
him " Latcho ratti ! " (Good night.) Absalom sang no more ; 
when he reached the other side of the field, he carefully scanned 
the road before returning. Nothing was in sight except the 
covered wagons and caravan moving slowly up the next 
hill. Absalom drew a deep breath and retraced the field, 
thinking of a pair of scarlet lips and strange eyes. 

As he halted his oxen by the wall, suddenly there uprose 
from the ground the gypsy Gilda. She had been seated where 
the wall concealed her. She approached him, holding out both 
hands, with a smile no longer scornful and mocking, but full of 
allurement. Had Absalom thought her eyes black ? The 
eyes looking into his were no more black than were Charity's. 

They were a warm soft yellow, full of sunlight, clear as a 
mountain brook, tender as the budding spring. And those 
scarlet lips ! They stood speechless gazing in each others' eyes, 
Absalom with his Saxon face, deep blue eyes and fair wavy 
hair ; the gypsy girl, doubtless the child of Spanish blood, with 
olive velvet skin and long black braids — a strange contrast. 



I 



After a moment of silence the gypsy spoke. Her voice 
was as the murmur of a singing stream. 

" Beautiful Giorgio," she said, "Gilda could not leave thee. 
There is that in thy palm she must tell thee, and she could not 
speak in the presence of the Romany Rye (Gypsy gentleman) 
and the Romany Dye." (Gypsy mother.) 

She took his hand in both her own ; a mesmeric current 
seemed to flow through his arm. His head swam, and all the 
world seemed blotted out except those lips ! Gilda gently 
turned his hand so that the palm was visible, and continued, 

" What is the past ? — though Gilda could tell thee ! It is 
only the beautiful present and the joyous future that we need 
know. The Romany Dye Esmerelda was right ; — a long life, 
riches, and twice rummer ed." She sighed deeply, and repeated, 
"Alas, twice married ! Yet why should the gypsy weep that 
another chenshes his old age, when his youth and beauty are 
hers? The Zingara's life is short and merry. Let those drag 
through the weakness and infirmity of age who will. Spring 
and summer for the Romany, autumn and winter for the 
Giorgio. It is well ! " 

Absalom knew not what to say. At last he said hesitat- 
ingly — "Am, — am I to — marry ? Can ye see aught o' th* 
maid ? Is she hght complected with gray eyes, — or is she — ? " 

"A fair maiden ! " laughed the gypsy with an unpleasant 
ring in her mirth. " Nay, nay ! Thy wife is dark, she has eyes 
like a fawn, sometimes black, and again yellow, she has a torrent 
of jet black hair, she — " the girl paused significantly. 

"She will rest in thy arms ere that faint young fingernail of 
of a moon which lies on the western horizon shall wax and 
wane. Yea, she shall rest in thy strong arms, even as the new 
moon holds the old moon in her arms. Love is the only thing 
in this wide world. Gilda has sought it in many countries. 
Turn not away when it comes to thee ! " 

7 



Gently she drew his hand to her, and before Absalom 
could realize what was happening, his lips were pressed to hers, 
— wonderhil, warm, scarlet. 

Gilda sprang from him into the road, as he would have 
caught her in his arms, and with a radiant smile, said as the 
Romany Dye Esmerelda had done, " Latcho ratti ! " She was 
gone. He looked about him bewildered. The spring evening 
was falling, and there \n the west was the new moon, with the 
old moon in its arms. A tin horn was blowing at the farm 
house. It was "Aunt Nabby" as his mother was known, 
calling him to supper. Mechanically he unhitched the oxen 
from the plough, and took his homeward way. He sat down 
to the supper table as usual, but scarcely ate, in place of his 
customary excellent appetite. 

" What ails ye, Absalom ? " asked his mother. " Reckon 
your liver's upsot. I'll fix ye up some yarb tea. Did ye see 
that gang of gypsies go long a spell ago ? Ye better nail up 
th' barn door tonight, an* don't leave th' bosses out to paster. 
Nail up th* chicken coop, while ye*re *bout it, too. I sense it s 
a lot o' trouble, but it's better to be sure than sorry. Ther* aint 
nuthin' safe when that scum comes traipsin' roun'.'* 

Absalom felt a slow sense of indignation. Nothing was 
ever locked and bolted on the farm. 

" Nabby's right" added " Uncle Isaiah," as Absalom's 
father was known. " These here latter day Ishmaelites aint no 
good fer this worl' ner the nex'. Strange the Gov'ment lets 'cm 
stroll roun' like a pack o' jackals. They oughter be kelched, 
an' sot to work with a ball an' chain hitched to em. Ther* was 
one on'cm come trampoosin* past, arter th' bunch hed gone by, 
with a bright red gown. She reminded me o th "Scarlet 
Woman " mentioned in Scriptur'. " 

A dull wrath pervaded Absalom. Was beautiful Gilda 
an Ishmaclile, who should be hampered with a ball and chain ? 

8 



" Uncle Isaiah" was not misnamed for his prophetic pro- 
totype. He was a tall patriarchal man, with long white hair 
floating on his shoulders, and a beard like that of the prophets. 
Had he dressed in flowing robes, he might have served as a 
model for Moses himself. He was deeply religious according to 
his lights, and the language of Scripture was to him as his native 
air. Much of his spare time had been spent in poring over the 
Old Testament, and its majestic language fell from his lips as 
naturally as his daily conversation. Strangely enough, while he 
spoke the prevailing vernacular ordinarily, in Scriptural quotation 
and in prayer, his English was pure and undefiled, untainted with 
provincial colloquialism. 

His imposing presence, knowledge of Scripture, and 
eloquent delivery, made him an object of surprise and admira- 
tion to strangers. 

After supper Absalom nailed up the buildings in accord- 
ance with instructions, and in spite of his day's ploughing, 
wandered about with unrest. He was the only child, and there 
was none in the family to whom he could open his heart about 
the events of the afternoon, since he knew without doubt his 
family's sentiments toward the gypsy race. 

He reasoned that their camp could not be far distant, as it 
was so late in the day when they halted at the field. A vsald 
desire to see those lips overwhelmed him, and he at last yielded 
to the temptation to search for the gypsy camp. 

Hastily changing his working clothes for his Sunday gar- 
ments, he met his mother as he left the house. 

"Be ye goin' over to Charity's ? " asked she. " Ef ye be, 
! wish ye'd fetch me the pattern o' the block fer thet new kind 
o' quilt ; she promised to let me hev it." 

Absalom started guiltily. 

"Yes, I'm goin' over to Charity's," he said slowly. 

His mother went in the kitchen where her husband sat 

9 



reading, holding a tallow candle close to the page. 

"Absalom gettin' ruther thick over to Charity's" said she 
with a pleased smile. " I do hope its suthin' more'n puppy 
love. She'd make a good wife fer our son, an* she'll hev means 
one o' these days.** 

" He's alius hed good sense," said his father placidly. 
"Absalom's got too much Clabby blood in hirn to pick up one 
o' them 'ere highty-tighty fly-away gals, all ribbins, an' hoop 
skirts, and folderols. When he ondertakes to ' lead about a 
wife,' as saith St. Paul, he'll do credit to hisself an' to us too, 
mark my words ! " 

" Wal, I do hope so, I'm sure," replied his wife. " The 
kind o' marriage a man gets into makes or mars his hull life. 
They do say that a man hes to ax his wife's leave to git rich." 

" Blood will tell ! " responded the old man proudly. "An* 
th' Clabby blood came over in th' Mayflower ! " 

Meanwhile Absakxn pursued his expedition of discovery, 
regardless of his aiKestors, both remote and recent. A pair of 
scarlet lips and saffron eyes were his lodestar and goal ; he saw 
them in the sunset sky, and through the gloom, " so softly dark, 
and darkly pure" of the spring evening ; he heard that rippling 
laugh in the wayside brook, and the pleasant noises of the night. 
Never was mariner rrwre swiftly and completely captivated by 
siren, or Rhine voyager by the Lorelei, than was Absalom 
Clabby, the descendant of the Pilgrim Fathers, by the vagrant 
daughter of the Romany tribe. 

Presently he caught the odor of wood smoke, and saw the 
gleam of camp fires in a glade at the edge of a wood. The 
twang of violin strings and the thrum of zithers mingled with the 
stamp of picketed horses. He withdrew behind the massive 
trunk of an oak, and stood absolutely without plan or purpose. 
He did not know why he had come; he only knew he could 
not keep away. The staid, sober young New Englander had 

10 



never before been so carried off his feet in all his proper, weB 
regulated existence. 

The old men and women sat smoking around the fires, 
while the young men thrununed on musical instruments, break- 
ing occasionally into a wild song, unintelligible to their listener. 

Suddenly the players burst forth with the music of the 
" Czardas," the national dance of the Magyars, one motif slow 
and stately, the other wild and rapid. The wailing of the 
violin and the clash of the cymbal spoke with the voices of 
** love and rage, fierce passion, and unutterable sadness." 

Suddenly there darted into the circle of firelight a scarlet 
robed figure moving with the lightness and sinuous grace of the 
panther, now swaying with uplifted arms, now clapping her 
hands, and anon whirling dizzily with the abandon of a Nautch 
dancing girl, and finally moving with slow easy grace, and 
elegance of movement. It was Gilda. 

As she danced she gradually gained the outer edge of the 
circle of fire light, and at last passed beyond it, and was lost in 
the darkness of the wood. 

While Absalom strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of 
scarlet, a hand was laid on his arm. He started in sudden 
fright ; he had heard nothing, not the breeJdng of a twag, or a 
movement in the undergrowth. Gilda stood beside him. 

" Fear not, Giorgio," said she. "Did Gilda startle thee? 
Her heart called her, she knew not why. When the heart 
calls, Gilda follows. She is not deceived." 

Absalom stammered some incoherent words ; the strange 
spell of her personality crqDt over his senses. 

Gilda continued : — '* Soon the Romany Rye and the 
Romany Dye will go their way through the spring weather. 
Soon, too soon, will Gilda be torn from one whom she loved 
when she first looked in his eyes. Why should not the heart 
speak, when time is so short, and eternity so long? The 

11 



Romany speaks when the Giorgio is silent ; but though the lips 
answer not, the heart cries aloud." 

" Oh," cried Absalom, startled from his New England 
unresponsiveness — " Gild a, it is true ! It is true ! Do not leave 
me; do not go when they — these people, — do. Stay, and be 
my wife ! I never saw a woman like you. Tell me, you are 
not married ? " 

" Gilda is a Romany maiden, and of high birth," said she, 
drawing herself up proudly. " Gilda is a Gypsy princess. Her 
father is King of the Gypsies in another country. But she loves 
not the men of gyj)sy blood. She loves the fair hair and blue 
eyes of this cold country. Gilda fled lest she be married to a 
Romany she loved not." 

Absalom's heart expanded with sympathy. Her fascina- 
tion had woven its spell, and all else was forgotten. He caught 
her hand. 

" Gilda, you belong to me ! When will you marry 
me? 

She answered, scarcely breathing, — " In yeck, dui, trin, — 
yes, in one, two, three days, — in three days from now, Gilda 
will be thy gypsy bride. Meet me in three nights, here at this 
hour." 

Suddenly a step in the underbrush warned them that a 
gypsy was approaching on his return from some nightly raid. 
In an instant Gilda was gone, noiselessly as a dryad. Absalom 
stood in silence until the gypsy, a slouching, black, ill-favored 
fellow, had passed into camp. 

Immediately a dispute and brawl broke out between two 
young Romanys and the new comer ; a confusion of unintel- 
ligible language rent the air, and loud shouts of what was 
apparently the names of two of the men — " Rudi I Rudi 1 San- 
dor I Sandor I " ensued. 

In the confusion Absalom gamed the road, and the thought 

12 



came to him that he had told his mother that he was going to 
Charity's. 

Yes, he must go to Charity. He must tell her that his 
past attentions were naught. Absalom was straight forward 
and honorable, and he had no doubt led her to believe that 
marriage was in his thought. 

As soon as he knew, he must tell Charity. He strode 
toward her home with the determination to have the unpleasant 
thing over as soon as possible. She met him at the gate, in the 
sweet moon-lit eve, with a happy smile. She was dressed in 
her simple best, and wore the amethyst brooch. She wore a 
cluster of flowers also. Not purplish red trillium. but pure 
white blood-root. Plainly, she had expected that he would 
come. Absalom was no silver-tongued orator. He aimed 
bunglingly directly at the heart of the matter, 

" No, Charity, I wont come in. I come to tell ye — that I 
hoped — that ye havn't thought that I, — that is, I thought so 
myself until today — oh, what I want to say is that I'm afeard 
I've given ye reason to think that I meant to pop the question, 
but I can't, I can't ! I've seen the only woman I could ever 
love. I couldn't help it. Charity, — I told her so, — don't feel 
hard ! Forgive me ! " 

Charity turned white as the bunch of closed bloodroot on 
her heaving breast, and slowly turning went into the house 
without answer. Indeed, she was incapable of speech. Absa- 
lom, with a strange feeling that the world was out of joint, 
walked slowly home. His quiet sea of life had in a few hours 
become a whirlpool, and for a girl strange in every particular of 
birth, thought, and habit, whom he had seen but twice. 

As he passed through the kitchen on his way upstairs his 
mother called out from her bedroom : — "Absalom, did ye re- 
member to git that quilt pattern o' Charity ? " 

" No, mother," he answered. " I didn't think on't." 

13 



" Aint young fellers all alike, father ? " said Mrs. Clabby to 
her husband. " Gals in, wits out o' their heads. I s'pose he 
*n Charity's so wrapped up in the'r own affairs, ther' aint 
nothin' else on 'arth. Wall, I'm mighty thankful he's picked 
out such a nice wife ! " 

"A Clabby s head is alius level on both business an' love," 
replied the old man with deep satisfaction. 

The mistaken couple peacefully slept, while the son whose 
prudence had been extolled, tossed restlessly, with broken 
snatches of dreams in which he saw scarlet lips and topaz eyes. 

The three days passed like a dream to Absalom ; he 
moved through his usual duties in a daze which caused much 
comment between his father and mother. 

" I've seen young fellers in love afore, but it seems to me I 
never seen none quite so daffy es Absalom," said Uncle Isaiah. 

" Oh fly, father ! 'Pears to me I ricolleck when ye hed 
a spell o' th' same disease, " replied the old lady smiling 
slyly. 

"I sartin never wus so silly actin' es this, mother! ' said 
the old man. " Never in this 'arthful world ! " 

The fatal third day came, as all days good and bad have 
a habit of coming. At the appointed time Absalom's horse 
and buggy stood at the edge of the wood, he and Gilda had 
met at the rendezvous, and gone in search of a minister who 
would marry them, a somewhat difficult pursuit. Absalom had 
insisted on a marriage by clergy, while Gilda was not in the 
least troubled about ceremonial rites. Parson Kellogg refused 
pomt blank, nor could any one be found who would undertake 
the doubtful task, until the Millerite leader, old Elder Tweddle 
was persuaded to tie the ill-assorted knot. 

As it was late before this feat was accomplished, Absalom 
left his bride at the gypsy camp, with the intention of breaking 
the dire news at home in the morning. But when the clear 

14 



light of day shone on the matter, he found it impossible to open 
his mouth to his father and mother, though he still was as madly 
infatuated with the gypsy as ever. 

" Colors seen by candle light 
Do not look the same by day." 

However, that evening he gathered together his courage 
and told the tale of his folly. Isaiah Clabby sat in the kitchen 
reading as usual by holding a tallow candle close to the paper. 
His wife sat knitting by the firelight, for the spring evenings were 
still cool. Upon this scene of domestic peace Absalom's con- 
fession fell like lightning from a clear sky. 

When it had been made absolutely clear to their minds 
that their only child, Absalom Clabby, a Mayflower descendant, 
and a member of the Congregational " meetin'," had wilfully 
and with malice aforethought married a gypsy whom he had 
seen for the first time three days before, and the identical 
"scarlet woman" whom Isaiah had seen " trampoosin' past," 
they were at first too stunned to find words. Mrs. Clabby, 
after the way of women, first recovered her power of speech, 
and burst into wild reproaches. 

" Her manners had not that repose 
Which stcimps the caste of Vere de Vera." 

Mrs. Clabby talked long and shrilly, while her husband 
sat in silence, and Absalom stood sulkily by. She exhausted 
her vituperation on the Delilah who had led her son from the 
beaten paths of New England decorum, ending by saying: 

" Who married ye, or did ye jump over a broomstick ? 
I've heerd tell that was the way them wild gypsy folks got 
married, an' I mistrust thet when they git sick on't, they jest 
jump back agin, an' call themselves single ! " 

Mrs. Clabby folded her arms in her apron, and rocked in 
an abandon of grief. Presently she burst forth again : 

"A mis'able traipsin' trollope ! I don't s'pose she wus 

15 



ever inside a Congregational meetin' house, in all her born days, 
an' dunno even thet 

" In Adam's fall, 
We sinned all." 
" I s'pose she never heerd o' foreordination, predestination 
sanctification an' justification ! O, dear me suz-a-day ! Whut 
shell I do ? " 

Uncle Isaiah waited in silence until his wife's grief had 
spent its audible expression. His paper had fallen to the floor, 
and he set the candlestick on the table beside him. Then he 
arose, looking with his stately height, and long white hair and 
beard as one of the prophets might have done, when pronounc- 
ing doom upon a wayward nation. 

He raised one hand, and held it a moment in silence. 
When at last he spoke, it was in the majestic language of the 
prophets. 

"Arise, cry out in the night ; in the beginning of the 
watches pour out thy heart like water." 

" Suddenly are my tents spoiled, and my curtains in a 
moment." 

" Our inheritance is turned to strangers, our houses to 
aliens." 

"Now is my house left unto me desolate." 
"A foolish son is the heaviness of his mother." 
"And why wilt thou, my son, be ravished v\^th a strange 
woman ? ' 

" The mouth of a strange woman is a deep pit. He that 
is abhoried of the Lord shall fall therein." 

"And behold, I mourn as one mourncth for his only son, 
as one that is in bitterness for his first-born." 

" Gird thee with sackcloth, and wallow thyself in ashes ; 
make thee mourning as for an only son. most bitter lamentation ; 
for the spoiler shall suddenly come upon us." 

16 



" O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom ! Would 
God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son ! " 

" Let us pray." The old man fell upon his knees, and 
raised both hands to heaven. 

" Oh Lord, have mercy on our Absalom. Thou knov^^est 
that a strange w^oman hath led him av^ay from the path of our 
Puritan fathers, but wilt Thou put Thy hook in his jaw^s, and 
pull him back to Thee. 

Thou hast added one to our family ; it may be Thy 
will ; it would never have been mine ! If it is of Thee, do 
Thou bless the connection. But if the poor fool hath been and 
done it out of carnal desire, may the cold wind of adversity 
settle on his habitation ! Amen, and Amen." 

Uncle Isaiah rose to his feet, and the three looked at each 
other. Then Absalom turned sullenly, and passed out of the 
door. His mother was seized with a sudden revulsion of feel- 
ing. Was he not her only child ? She ran after him, crying — 

"Absalom, stay with us tonight. Give yer father an' me 
time to think. Ye're all we hev, an' this was so suddint, sech 
a blow ! " 

After much persuasion he finally yielded, and went up to 
his room. In truth, he knew not where to go, the whole thing 
had been done so upon blind impulse. He could not go to the 
gypsy camp, he had no place to take his wife. All night long 
his father and mother talked together of this sudden calamity. 
Early in the morning they sent for Parson Kellogg and laid bare 
their grief, asking his council. Finally natural affection prevailed, 
coupled with the peaceful advice of the minister, that since the 
misfortune had fallen, they should accept the wild stranger, 
teach her so far as possible, the customs of New England, 
and lead her in the paths of righteousness. So would their 
skirts be cleared of responsibility toward a heathen, and paremtal 
duty to their son would be fulfilled. 

17 



So it came to pass that the "scarlet woman" came from 
the woodland ways, and the long roads that stretch away over 
the hills, to the New England farm, and the straight and narrow 
path laid out as that of virtue. 

Now began the struggle of Aunt Nabby's life, the problem 
of fitting a square peg into a round hole. Gilda's manners, her 
thoughts, cmd her habits were a revelation to the unwilhng 
mother-in-law, and of nothing did she approve. She insisted 
that the gypsy bride should lay aside the offending scarlet dress, 
and wear the dull shades of homespun ; that her black braids 
should be pinned tightly around her head, and re-christened 
Gilda with the prosaic name of Sarah Ann. 

Mrs. Clabby took her reconstructed daughter-in-law to 
meetin', bitter as was the process of running the gauntlet of 
curious eyes, and shocking as were the gypsy's errors in etiquette, 
willful and otherwise. Even her beauty seemed in a measure 
laid aside with her native dress. 

Naturally she was absolutely without domestic instincts, 
and Aunt Nabby was a notable housewife. Even the food of 
the gypsy was strange, and she scorned the sacred baked bean. 

The only things the caged eagle was willing to do, were 
to play on a mandolin which she had brought with her, drink 
hard cider and roam the fields. Once Mrs. Clabby took her to 
a missionary meeting, hoping that some seed might fall in good 
ground in the heathen's heart, and Gilda at the most solemn 
moment had sprang up and danced the Czardas ! 

She seized the passing communion cup, and drank to the 
last drop its contents of homemade wine, to the horror of the 
deacons, the amusement of the congregation, and the mortifica- 
tion of Aunt Nabby. 

Also, dirty old gypsy women and impudent looking young 
men, especially one called Rudi, haunted the back door to the 
horror of Uncle Isaiah, and the terror of his wife. 

18 



The climax came when Gilda seemed ill and drowsy, and 
after a period of stupid seeming unconsciousness, Dr. Pumpelly, 
who was sent for in haste, pronounced her simply drunk ! 

Affairs in the Clabby family daily grew more strained, 
until at last they were indeed "on the knees of the gods." 

Absalom was still under Gilda s spell, and often secretly 
did foolish things which would have reduced his parents to the 
verge of despair, had they known of them. She persuaded him 
to bury all his money beside a stone wall under a tree in the 
pasture, telling him that money so planted would grow, and that 
Esmeralda had said he should be rich. 

She assured him that gypsies always buried money when 
they wished it to increase, and when he pointed out the im- 
possibility, she asked him if he did not always bury grain which 
he wanted to grow, and at length prevailed on him to bury his 
nest-egg, foolish as he knew it to be. 

Aunt Nabby faithfully endeavored to instruct her wild 
daughter-in-law in Congregational doctrines, in needlework, 
domestic ways, and all that made for New England virtues. 
One day she felt impelled to impress on Gilda the honor that 
had been bestowed on her in marrying a descendant of the 
Pilgrim Fathers. Gilda drew herself up with flashing eyes. 

" What were these Mayflower men ? Farmers, laborers ! 
She had heard of them before ! Gilda descends from k^^^gs^ — 
from King Zindl, from King Cristall ! Her line goes back 
hundreds of years before this skiff, this dory, called the May- 
flower brought over its load of peasants ! Gilda s fathers wore 
velvets and satins when Ab-so-leem's wore dornick! Gilda is 
a Princess ! The honor is all Ab-so-leem's ! " 

The sturdy New England woman quailed before the fury 
of her royal daughter-in-law, and thereafter ventured not to 
attempt the education of this descendant of kings. 

So life dragged on for weeks, and matters must soon have 

19 



reached a crisis, when one morning Gilda, who had a plebeian 
early morning habit, for a Princess, of sucking raw eggs, did not 
return from her customary raid on the hen's nests in the bam. 
As the day passed without her return, toward evening Absalom 
went up to the gypsy camping ground, only to find a vacancy 
where the wagons had stood. Nothing remained to tell of their 
presence except trampled grass with spots worn bare, greasy 
paper and dirty linen, bones and scraps of vegetables, feathers, 
and a few soiled and ragged garments left hanging on bushes. 

Sickness of heart filled Absalom; he was still fascinated 
by this strange woman, in spite of the problem and bone of 
contention which she had been in the family. 

Suddenly his thought reverted to the buried money, and 
stopping in the pasture, he found the earth newly disturbed, and 
the money gone. 

Slowly he returned home with the tale of their departure. 
His mother was unable to conceal her joy, while his father's 
sole comment was : — " Render them a recompense, O Lord, 
according to the work of their hands." 

Gossip and comment was naturally rife for many miles. 
The tale of Absalom's matrimonial venture had crept even over 
into "York State." People looked at him curiously, and 
whispered together before his back was turned. His mother, in 
feminine fashion, could not refrain from an occasional remark of 
satisfaction that the family was rid of the disturbing element. 
Absalom grew more reticent and secluded, and at last, as the 
pricks of home and neighborhood comment, and " the stings and 
arrows of outrageous fortune" became more annoying, he left 
the house, and betook himself to a little shanty used in maple 
sugar time, down a wood road in the depths of a sugar bush. 
He went nowhere, was social with none, laboring daily on the 
farm, and retreating to his lonely cabin at the close of the day. 

Soon the neighbors dubbed him " The Hermit, " and the 

20 



pretty wood road, "Lxjver's Lane." So Absalom became 
known as "The Hermit of Lover's Lane." Though often 
urged to return home by his father and mother, autimm leaves 
fell in their yellow drift, and snow blocked the road, yet Absalom 
remained. 

Spring came back with its sweet sounds and odors. A 
year had been rounded out since the fateful day when Absalom 
ploughed the upland field, singing as he went, and the disturber 
of his peace came up the road, and smiled with lips and eyes to 
his undoing. 

One night there was a wild spring storm. The south- 
wester whistled, shrieked and groaned around the little shanty, 
the trees rocked and writhed, and from time to time wild gusts 
of rain drove against the v^ndow, and shook the door like one 
determined on entering. 

Absalom sat leaning with his head on his hands, absorbed 
in bitter retrospect. Suddenly a wail was mingled with the 
shrieking of the wind, — a wail which had a strangely human 
intonation. Absalom started up and listened. 

Agciin the cry, mingled with a dash of rain. He sprang 
to the door ; upon the step lay a bundle which he hesitatingly 
lifted, and unwrapping an old shawl, a young child looked up 
from its folds. A lusty howl testified to the infant's disapproba- 
tion. Absalom dropped it as if it burned him. 

Here was a predicament which distracted him from his 
sorrows. Finally he decided that he must examine the clothing, 
as a horrid fear began to oppress him. Handling the fearful 
creature timidly, he found around its neck a locket suspended 
by a string, — a locket which he had given Gilda. On opening it, 
his own face looked out at him. Here was a new complication 
before which his past troubles withdrew to the background. 

He had not thought of such a possibility. What should 
he, what could he do with this mite of a few weeks, which 

21 



screwed up a funny little mouth, and blinked a pair of expres- 
sionless eyes, while it waved its arms eiimlessly about. He 
cautiously extended a finger, which was seized and held 
firmly. 

At last Absalom realized that something must be done 
for this little rain-drenched creature. He was as awkward as 
most men with the young of the human species, and he gingerly 
removed the wet shawl and wrapped the baby in his coat. The 
infant still howled. Absalom began to suspect that it might be 
hungry. Of course that was the matter! The only young 
things that he had experience with were chickens, calves and 
lambs, one of the latter reposing in a bushel basket of hay 
behind the stove at the moment. He had found the little 
creature chilled when the sheep were folded that night. An 
mspiration came to Absalom. Why not feed the baby with 
milk prepared for the lamb ? He was past master at nursing 
chilled lambs, and what was good for a lamb, must certainly be 
good for a baby ! 

Therefore very shortly the infant was lying beside the lamb 
in the basket, and placidly feedmg from the lamb's bottle, on 
warm milk, sweetened with molasses, and flavored with a dash 
of black pepper ! 

Absalom spent a sleepless night. What could he do with 
this new perplexity, fallen as lightning from a clear sky ? Verily 
he had sown the wind, and reaped the whirlwind. He would 
not ask his mother to undertake the infant's care ; she was well 
advanced in years, and he knew would regard the child as of 
the viper's brood, forgetting that her own blood flowed in its 
veins. A desperate thought of Charity crossed his vexed spirit, 
dismissed with a qualm of self reproach. At last in the cold 
gray of the early morning he came to a decision. He would 
take the child to the town farm, the overseer of which had been 
friendly, so far as Absalom permitted. He would leave it with 

11 



Mr. and Mrs. Hobbs, and pay for its care. He acted at once, 
wishing to run the gauntlet of the distance to the town farm 
before early risers were abroad. 

Ahi Hobbs listened sympathetically to Absalom's story, 
and his wife, a motherly creature, took the burden from the 
father's awkward arms. She chirruped to the mite, which 
opened a pair of wondering eyes and regarded her gravely. 

"Aint it a cute little creetur ! " exclaimed she. "An so 
knowin' ! See it look up an' breathe! Is it a boy er a gal, 
Absalom ? " 

Absalom started. The idea had not occurred to him at 
all. It was just a baby, his analysis had gone no further. He 
blushed like a peony, and stammered something unintelligibly. 

But Mrs. Hobbs was chucking the baby under the chin, 
and talking equally unintelligible language to it, in the midst of 
which Absalom made his escape. 

A few days later as he was working in the field, Mr. 
Hobbs called to him in passing, 

" Wal, Absalom, yer darter's a gal, an' a mighty peart un, 
too!" He drew nearer the fence, and said in a low voice: — 
"Absalom, come up clus ter th' fence ; I want ter talk ter yer." 

He told Absalom that Charity Eels had come to the town 
farm, and asked for the baby girl, promising to bring her up in 
the narrow path of New England virtue. 

" I cal'late Charity feels lonesome like, sence she lost her 
maw, an' nobuddy lef but her brother. Be ye willin' to let her 
hev a try ? " concluded Ahi. Absalom's heart gave a mighty 
leap. He had often thought of Charity and her sweet gentle- 
ness, and imagined her with his child in her arms. 

" I'm more'n willin', Ahi. I know yer wife's good es she 
kin be, but she hes so much on her hands, 'thout carin' fer a 
baby. But ther's one thing I must do. I'll pay ye reg'lar, an' 
you hand it over to Charity." 

23 



So it was arranged, and the village had another nine days 
wonder to gossip over. Time passed, and Absalom was still 
the Hermit of Lover's Lane. His parents were gathered to 
their fathers, but he did not return to his old home. 

The thrall of the gypsy was still at times over him, and he 
would often stand before his hut in the sweet twilight of the 
summer night, and look up and dov^ the grassy lane, shaded 
with the interwoven arch of forest trees, and out where its vista 
opened on the western sky, where the sunset waved its banners 
of daffodil, purple, and gold, watching for the woman he had 
married in a moment of madness. 

But Gilda never came, and as the years passed with their 
relentless tread, Absalom's hair became frosted, until at fifty he 
looked an old man. He had regularly left a sum of money 
with Ahi, long since retired from the poor farm, to be devoted 
to the child's upbringing. 

Ahi had several times attempted to tell him of her, but he 
would not listen. It recalled too keenly the mistakes of his youth, 
and the life of loneliness and sorrow he had entailed on himself. 

Another spring came, and one evening in the gloaming 
Absalom sat outside his hut, when he became aware of the 
approach of some one down the wood road. He gazed in 
surprise, as few intruders ventured on his solitude. 

But presently he saw this was a stranger, a woman, ragged 
but gaudily attired. Her face was withered and wrinkled, hard 
in feature and expression, and she walked unsteadily, as one 
under the influence of strong drink. 

She stopped before him, and laughed in a maudlin fashion. 
Suddenly she threw her arms around his neck, and laughing 
and weeping, demanded to know if Absalom did not recognize 
his wife, his Gilda ? 

He thrust her from him in a horror of repulsion. She 
knelt before him, crying — 

24 



" Rudi is dead, — poor Rudi ! True, he beat Gilda, but 
he did it because he loved her. Poor Gilda ! She has no 
one, now Rudi is gone, she comes back to the Giorgio. 
Ab-so-leem, he once loved Gilda. He will take her to himself? 
She is his gypsy bride." 

Her breath, heavy with bad whiskey came in his face, and 
he shrunk further away, saying, — 

" I don't know ye ! Ye re drunk ! " 

She moaned and lamented, and relapsing into a patois of 
English and Romany, exclaimed — 

"Ab-so-leem, the Giorgio, think Gilda matto ! (Drunk.) 
True, Gilda stop in the kitchema, (tavern) but she only been 
piin leoinor. (Drinking beer.) That not make drunk ! " 

" Go ! " exclaimed Absalom. " Ye are not Gilda ; ye're 
jest a common tramp ! " 

In reply the woman drew from her breast a cord on which 
was suspended the half of a silver coin. 

" Know you this, Giorgio? " asked she with a sneer. 

It was half of a silver piece which Absalom had divided 
as a love token during the brief madness which possessed him. 

"Ab-so-leem," she went on in a wheedling, cajoling tone. 
" Be kind to Gilda. You say not even to her besh alay." 
(Sit down.) 

She was becoming more under the influence of liquor. 
Her eyes, which had lost all their strange beauty, were dull and 
heavy. 

"Gilda sick, — sick! " she went on. " Gilda travel far to 
see Ab-so-leem ; to see her child, the baby Esmeralda, to give 
her a dowry, — before Gilda die. Where is the child ? Tell 
Gilda quickly, before she cry aloud through the country for her 
flesh and blood, until she find her." 

Absalom was chilled. He could not have Charity so 
troubled and annoyed, and the child must not see her mother. 

25 



Though he had never seen his offspring since the day when 
Mrs. Hobbs took her from his arms, though he did not even 
know by what name she was called, he would not have her 
thus humiliated, and again start the tongues of malicious gossip. 
He would quiet this creature by any means possible, and trust 
to fortune to keep her visit a secret. How dearly he had paid 
for his short folly ! He was completely disenchanted, his love 
turned to loathing. 

So, forcing a smile, he said, adopting her manner of 
speech : — 

" Will not Gilda rest in the house of Absalom, and we 
will talk more afterward ? " 

The woman staggered into the little room, and fell across 
his bed, where she was presently in a drunken sleep, only 
stirring to say before wholly under its influence : — 

" Under tree, — dig, dig ; jewels, — silver and gold." 
Again Absalom spent a sleepless night, as he had done often 
before on her account. At daybreak, as she still slept heavily, 
he slipped out to attend to the cattle, and on his return she was 
gone. He searched the woods, but there was nothing to prove 
that he had not passed through a horrible nightmare. 

Indeed, he was trying to persuade himself that such was 
the truth, when Ahi, who was almost the only one with whom 
he held conversation, told him that there was great excitement 
in the neighborhood, that a woman tramp had been found dead 
in a bam. 

He talked on garrulously, drawn out by a few questions, 
until Absalom was certain that it was Gilda. A wild emotion 
of freedom and relief came to him, as he learned that no one 
had been found who had conversed with the woman, though 
she had been seen hanging around the vicinity for some days. 

"Absalom," continued the old man, "I don't want ter hurt 
yer feelin's, but I sort o* suspected thet, — the woman wus, — 

26 



you know who, — an' I'm glad ye're free. She's safely buried 
in the poor farm corner o' th' Frog Holler buryin' groun*. 
Absalom, don't live in this shack the rest o* yer days ; ye're got 
es pooty a darter es ye need ter look at, an' Charity ! — " 

Then Absalom told Ahi of his night's vigil, and found 
great relief in speech after his silent years ; he cursed the folly 
that had sold his birthright for a mess of pottage. Absalom 
spent the next week in deep thought ; at its end he went to the 
next village, where he bought new attire, and after the pruning 
of his hair and beard was accomplished, he looked as if the 
clock of Time had turned its hands backward on the dial. 
Absalom was a man of decision, and he had decided. 

As he crossed the lots on his homeward way, he passed 
through the pasture where in days of folly he had buried his 
all at Gilda's instigation, and turned aside to look at the spot, as 
her incoherent words crossed his mind. To his astonishment, 
the earth had been disturbed, and on digging, he found a store 
of gold and silver coins, and precious stones, more in value than 
the farm on which they were buried. So this was Gilda's 
dowry for her daughter. 

That evening, the young spring moon shone softly, the 
peepers in the marshes sang their shrill song, and Absalom 
turned his steps to Charity's home, even as he had done more 
than twenty years ago. A figure stood at the gate, even as of 
yore. Absalom knew who waited, even before a word was 
uttered. 

" Charity," said he, " I have come back to ye, after years 
worse than wasted. Will ye take what is left o' my life, an' 
try to straighten out the tangled skein ? She is dead. I can 
only offer ye the last years of a life that should have been all 
yours, but for an awful mistake, — an awful mistake." 

She answered in the low sweet voice that he so well 
remembered, — 

27 



"Absalom, I have waited for you all these years. I knew 
the time would come when you would need comfort, love and 
sympathy ; I have waited that I might give when you sought. 
A faithful woman can wait a life time for the man she loves." 
A joyous young voice called from the doorway, — 
"Aunty, — Aunt Charity ! Where are you?" 
Absalom and Charity walked slowly up the path to the 
door. He looked almost in terror at the young girl who stood 
m the lamp light, fearing lest he should see scarlet lips and topaz 
eyes. To his joy and surprise a fair slender young girl looked 
at him with his mother's eyes, large serious blue-gray orbs. 

"Absalom," said Charity solemnly, joining the hands of 
father and child, " I give to you your daughter. I loved her 
first for your sake, and after for her own. I have saved for 
her every penny that you have sent for her care these twenty 
years. She is as my own to me, — and her name is — Hope! " 
Absalom stood as in a dream. Then, after the manner of 
old Isaiah, he spoke softly, — 

"And Hope maketh not ashamed! " He went on gently, 
" Charity suffereth long and is kind * * * seeketh not 
her own * * * thinketh no evil * * * beareth 
all things, believeth all things, hopeth aU things, endureth all 
things. Charity never faileth." 

He paused a moment, and finished solemnly : — 
"But the greatest of these, is Charity." 
The farmhouse door closed behind them, bound together 
by that threefold cord, which is not easily broken. 

It shut out the sorrowful past, the mistakes and grief, and 
shut in Love, Joy, and Peace, 



28 



^OT 26 1912 



